Chapter 1: Prologue
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 1: Prologue
The wilderness, soaked in the deep dusk, was stained red.
Stepping onto the blood-slicked earth, Nam Young-shin, the Namcheon Palace Master, found his body in tatters.
His left shoulder had been completely torn away, and three fist-sized holes gaped in his chest.
His body had long since reached its limit. It would not have been surprising if he drew his last breath at any moment.
Yet, his determination to keep moving forward remained unshakable.
Squelch.
His blood-soaked leather boots pressed heavily into the earth. Each vivid, crimson footprint bore the weight of his absolute resolve.
"Heh."
A murmur of admiration escaped the lips of the Demonic Cult Leader as he watched Nam Young-shin approach.
"The Sword Emperor... How amusing. To think you actually made it this far."
Perched on a jagged, split boulder, the Cult Leader rested his chin on his hand, one knee propped up lazily.
Though his heart had been pierced and shattered, his posture exuded nothing but relaxed amusement.
But Nam Young-shin could not share in his amusement. Instead, a bitter grief escaped his lips.
"Amusing? You call this amusing?"
Nam Young-shin's gaze drifted past the Cult Leader's shoulder.
Rivers of blood and shredded flesh wound through low hills formed from mounds of corpses.
They were the disciples of Namcheon Palace, who had stood by his side against the Sun-Moon Demonic Cult.
— Palace Master. The Sun-Moon Demonic Cult has reached Anhui Province. What are your orders?
— A chivalrous hero's sword is sharp because it bears responsibility, and it is straight because it does not compromise. Is the sword you hold that of a hero, or is it merely the blade of a common man?
— There are no common men among the disciples of Namcheon Palace. We will all march forward with you, Palace Master.
Their final conversation echoed clearly in his ears, helping him steady his failing posture.
Yes. That is what I taught you, and you did exactly as I asked.
Strength returned to his grip on his cherished weapon, the Heaven-Reliant Sword. It felt as though his fallen disciples were placing their hands over his.
Now... it is my turn.
Nam Young-shin's lips parted slowly.
Though fresh blood spilled from the corners of his mouth, his voice was clear, resonant, and powerful.
"The disciples of Namcheon Palace did not retreat; they pressed forward. They did so to fulfill their responsibility to the Martial Path they walked."
It was the final praise a master could bestow upon his disciples—and at the same time, a vow to himself.
Squelch.
Nam Young-shin finally closed the distance, stepping within seven paces of the Demonic Cult Leader.
His utterly ruined body had no more blood left to spill, yet his steps remained steady and unyielding.
"How dare you use the word 'amusing' to describe those who proved their unyielding chivalry."
His voice was as cold and severe as eternal snow, but beneath it raged a fierce, tempestuous fury.
Sensing the raw emotion buried in those words, a wicked smile curled the Cult Leader's lips.
Scree!
Nam Young-shin raised the Heaven-Reliant Sword.
Since the Cult Leader would not die even with his heart torn to shreds, he would take his head instead.
Even with death looming, the Cult Leader's face overflowed with vibrant life.
"Sword Emperor. Can you handle the consequences of what comes next?"
Nam Young-shin’s lips formed a firm, resolute line.
"When a swordsman holds a sword in his hand, what is there that he cannot handle?"
Taking his final step, Nam Young-shin gathered every last ounce of his remaining strength for a single strike.
Just as the Demonic Cult Leader formed a bizarre hand seal, the Heaven-Reliant Sword slashed horizontally.
Whoosh!
A deep blue sword strike cleaved the boundary between heaven and earth.
The Cult Leader's neck was caught perfectly in the path of that endless, horizontal blue horizon.
Spurt!
A fountain of blood erupted from the Cult Leader's neck.
Even as his severed head spun through the air, a telepathic message echoed from it, warping the very fabric of creation.
[The black sun and the red moon always yearn for one another; thus, the two shall never be parted.]
Thuuuum!
As if the sky itself were a massive drum, dark red ripples spread across the heavens, followed by a deafening roar.
As the ominous ripples swept over his body, Nam Young-shin's consciousness began to fade.
"I see. A double suicide."
Whatever martial art this was, it was undoubtedly the Cult Leader's final trap to ensure they died together.
Collapsing onto the rubble, Nam Young-shin fought to keep his senses as he thought of his disciples.
Despite bearing the title of Sword Emperor, he had failed to protect them.
Even if he were to go back in time, he would make the same choice to stand against the Sun-Moon Demonic Cult.
Yet, the loss of his disciples was an agonizing wound. Compared to their deaths, the pain of his shattered body was nothing.
I am sorry, my disciples.
It was time to follow them across the Sanzu River.
"Is regret... the only thing left on my blade?"
If only he had been a little stronger.
If only he had tried a little harder.
If only he had fought with more desperation.
If only he had pushed further.
Perhaps he could have done more than just stop the Sun-Moon Demonic Cult—perhaps he could have saved Namcheon Palace and his disciples.
Tears welled in Nam Young-shin's eyes, mixing with the blood on his cheeks to become tears of blood.
He looked up at the sky.
The heavens, once obscured by the Cult Leader's Demonic Qi, were now clear.
It was so blue, so vast.
That very sky was the chivalry he and his disciples had fought to protect.
The faces of his departed disciples drifted faintly across the sky, but he did not dare reach out to them.
He had no right.
This was the end of a man who had preserved the peace of the Jianghu but failed to protect his own disciples and sect.
When the tears of blood stopped flowing down his rugged jawline, Nam Young-shin's breath, which had communed with heaven and earth, finally ceased.
He died cradling his lifelong companion, the Heaven-Reliant Sword.
The exceptionally high sky cast an indigo glow as it seemed to settle over him.
It was the end of autumn.
* * *
"Nameless! Wake up, you bastard! You lazy slug!"
Along with the shout piercing through his sleep, a dull pain flared like fire in his chest.
"Ugh..."
Nameless groaned and opened his eyes.
Before him stood Deoksam, a middle-aged man glaring with bloodshot eyes, his fists clenched.
"A mere sword attendant, and you're still sleeping?"
Sword attendant.
Literally, it meant 'a boy who cares for swords.'
In reality, they were closer to porters and servants, carrying all sorts of heavy baggage and running endless errands.
Thud!
Deoksam raised his foot and stomped on Nameless's face.
"I gave a name to an orphan with a severed meridian and let you earn a living, and this is how you thank me? Faking illness and slacking off?"
Thud! Thud!
Though he feigned anger, the corners of Deoksam's mouth twitched. He was smiling.
He was clearly beating him for the fun of it, but Nameless's mind was focused elsewhere.
What is happening? I should be dead.
Namcheon Palace and the Sun-Moon Demonic Cult.
His fallen disciples.
His final battle to the death with the Demonic Cult Leader.
The memories were incredibly vivid.
Not only that, but the life he had lived as Nam Young-shin flowed into his mind like a dream.
This is no mere dream.
Nameless realized instinctively.
In his past life, he was the Sword Emperor, and now he had been reincarnated into the body of Nameless.
He suddenly recalled the Cult Leader's final telepathic message that had enveloped him.
— The black sun and the red moon always yearn for one another; thus, the two shall never be parted.
Could that final thought have triggered some sort of cosmic reversal?
Grab!
Deoksam's kick was caught in Nameless's hand.
"Ha! You dare grab my foot? Do you want to die today...? Huh?"
Deoksam pushed down with his foot, but Nameless's hand held fast like a steel vise.
As the upward force lifting his foot grew stronger, Deoksam's eyes trembled.
This kid was groaning in pain just yesterday...
Nameless swept back the bangs covering his eyes. In his exposed pupils, the sharp glint of a blade seemed to flash.
"Gasp!"
Overwhelmed by that icy gaze, Deoksam stumbled back and fell flat on his backside.
Meanwhile, Nameless slowly stood up.
Though he merely straightened his back, an untouchable, haughty dignity radiated from him.
It was a demeanor never before seen.
He looked like an entirely different person—not a wretched orphan, but a noble young master experiencing the world for the first time.
Nameless cast a cold, downward glance. His icy eyes drifted to the worn sword hanging at Deoksam's waist.
"To abuse someone so young who knows no martial arts... You are not fit to hold a sword."
The wandering warriors who had been quietly watching the scene burst into laughter.
"How pathetic must you be for a sword attendant to look down on you? And a sickly one with a severed meridian at that!"
"How pathetic, Deoksam! Why don't you just go plow a field instead?"
Deoksam's face flushed bright red at the mockery of his fellow wandering warriors.
"Nameless! Did your severed meridian scramble your brains?"
Enraged, Deoksam scrambled to his feet and reached for his waist, but Nameless's hand shot out a breath faster.
Before anyone realized, Nameless's hand was gripping the hilt in a reverse hold.
Drawing the sword with the blade facing upward, he swung it up with immense force. The draw transitioned seamlessly into a slash.
Shhhk!
The harsh scrape of metal leaving the scabbard was instantly followed by the wet sound of tearing flesh.
"Aaaargh!"
Nameless had severed Deoksam's arm in the exact moment of drawing the blade.
The eyes of the surrounding wandering warriors and sword attendants widened in sheer shock.
"Aaaagh! My arm! My arm...!"
"Raise your head."
Clutching his severed limb, Deoksam wept and sniveled pathetically as his head was slowly forced upward.
He had no choice.
The voice addressing him was as stern and intense as tempered steel, carrying a weight that made him forget his immediate pain and loss.
Nameless flicked the blood off the blade with effortless grace.
The casual way he let the sword hang at his side made him look like a seasoned master of the blade.
Though he had clearly never trained in martial arts, a terrifyingly sharp aura gleamed in his eyes. The wretched, timid boy from before was completely gone.
"Ah..."
Nameless had become an entirely different person.
Deoksam frantically looked around for help, but no one stepped forward.
No, they could not step forward.
No one dared to take a step toward Nameless, as if an invisible barrier had been erected around him.
As wandering warriors who lived on the edge of death, they knew instinctively: to approach Nameless was to step across the line of death.
Deoksam felt it acutely too.
He was standing at the threshold of life and death.
"Nameless, Nameless! I'm sorry!"
Deoksam hurriedly fumbled inside his robes with his remaining left hand.
He pulled out everything—his coin purse, dried meat, small pills, and nameless roots—shoving them forward as he bowed his head to the dirt.
"It's not enough to make up for how I treated you, but please take this and forgive me!"
Nameless looked down at the crown of Deoksam's head pressed against the ground.
At that moment, the original Nameless's memories flooded his mind.
Proper clothes and food were rare luxuries. Whenever Deoksam was bored or angry, violence was guaranteed.
Far from paying him for his work as a sword attendant, Deoksam routinely extorted him and planned to use him as bait or a human shield in dangerous situations.
Even when Nameless suffered seizures due to his congenital severed meridian, Deoksam never bought medicine or called a physician; instead, he kicked him.
These were Nameless's final memories.
Deoksam had always treated him with malice, like a toy to be played with and discarded.
"I do not need to see your face to know. What use is wealth alongside an insincere apology?"
The moment Deoksam's shoulders flinched, an icy, clean line traced through the air.
The strike carried the full weight of the agony Nameless had endured, making the trajectory of the blade chillingly precise.
Slash!
Deoksam's head popped off cleanly. His headless body slowly slumped forward, staining the ground dark red.
Just as he had treated Nameless as insignificant, Deoksam met an insignificant end.
"For the past five years, you have oppressed and insulted the weak. Your life shall serve as payment."
The surrounding wandering warriors stared at Deoksam's head rolling pitifully on the ground.
Nameless was right.
Deoksam's final expression was a mix of extreme servility and hidden rage—like a wolf biding its time.
"Those who do not take responsibility for their martial arts have no right to hold a sword."
Nameless's low murmur swept heavily across the clearing.
I couldn't even follow that strike with my eyes.
To think Deoksam would die so easily!
Since when did Nameless know how to wield a sword like that?
Because Nameless was born with a severed meridian, he couldn't even learn mediocre heart methods, let alone superior peerless arts.
He was so weak that even basic training was too much for him, and he suffered occasional seizures.
Thinking back, it was a miracle he had survived this long.
Was there a reason he dragged himself through life until now?
Ah, he was hiding his strength!
The wandering warriors looked at Nameless with eyes slick with fear, while the other sword attendants stared in absolute awe.
Everyone stood frozen, trembling for their own reasons.
Just as Nameless scanned the wandering warriors and sword attendants, preparing to speak—
Rip! Splat!
The sound of tearing flesh and bone, followed by wet splatters hitting the ground, echoed endlessly.
"Aaaargh!"
"Demonic practitioners! It's demonic practitioners!"
"It's the Sun-Moon Demonic Cult! Run!"
Nameless whipped his head toward the noise.
The Sun-Moon Demonic Cult?
Just then, bloodthirsty shouts erupted from all directions.
"The severed meridian! Secure the one with the severed meridian first!"
"Block off the perimeter! Seal the southeastern path first!"
Hearing the demonic practitioners' voices, Nameless's eyes narrowed. He realized instinctively what their goal was.
A severed meridian? Are they here for me?
Nameless quickly scanned his surroundings. The wandering warriors and sword attendants ahead were being slaughtered helplessly.
I cannot turn a blind eye.
His grip on the sword tightened.
Though his body was that of Nameless, his spirit was that of the Sword Emperor.
While everyone else fled, Nameless alone marched straight ahead.
The courage to walk in the opposite direction of ordinary men—that was the Martial Path of the Sword Emperor.
Thud.
Nameless's footsteps echoed with an exceptionally heavy resonance.